Enjoy the Fall
by Marigold Futura
Summary: Nobody noticed the diaphanous woman, or the dead man watching her. A ghost, seen only by another ghost.  Auron, pre-FFX, eventual xover with FFVIII
1. dead things

A/N: I've been gone a long time, I wonder if I still know how to do this.

Squeenix owns all, I own nothing.

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**enjoy the fall**

by Marigold Futura

* * *

**prelude**

* * *

He was dealing with being dead pretty well, all things considered. Or maybe it was just that he was trying not to think about it at all, save the recurrent searing pain of mangled flesh knitting itself together that caused him to grimace every time his facial muscles slid just so, which so aptly reminded him of his present state.

It was the change of venue that was the more perturbing matter at the moment.

He'd woken on a muddy little strand, his clothes and hair sodden and flecked with algae, sugared with grains of drying sand, sprawled half in the brilliant sunshine, half in the shade of a pier propped up on gleaming pillars. Roused by the sounds of shouting children and the tinny victory fanfares of midway games. Druggedly, he half thought he'd fallen short of his goal and been dropped in the seas near Luca instead. _Nice going, Jecht. _

Only when he'd ambled to his feet, pausing to pull off a rope of seaweed presently trying to strangle his boot, and ascended the concrete steps that provided access up the sand dunes, did he see the truth for himself, and was assured that he was very, _very _far from home.

He'd seen the crumbling carapaces of these same towers before, had tread the walkways joining them that had sagged under the weight of a millenia, threatening to collapse with the next step. Here the buildings gleamed like new, all glittering chrome and polished glass, studded with blinding artificial lights, even in the daytime. The boardwalk—full of odd machina contraptions that pinged and whirred and beeped to the amusement of the people prodding them, full of unfamiliar savory and sweet scents, full of laughter and strange lingo and even stranger clothes—was solid beneath his feet, not a single crack in the asphalt. Solid and real, and yet…it couldn't possibly _be_, could it?

He stood there, a bedraggled anachronism amidst the pristine chaos, trying to take it all in with his one good eye, the effort causing a dull throb to hammer away at the socket.

And that was when he first saw her.

Transparent as a veil. Running in slow motion, as if she were treading water, she streaked past him in a blur of bittersweet orange, her movements preserved in a peculiar contrail behind her. Her hair flying like a golden banner on the wind; her arms, clad in long brown gloves, cutting dark swaths through the air. Her lips parted as if to speak, perhaps calling out to someone.

He was close enough to see the trail of blood that trickled from her hairline. The bruises and lashes that marred her pale exposed skin.

The resignation—the calm acceptance of fate—in her crystalline blue eyes. He knew those eyes from another face, and the recognition lodged in his heart like a barb. _Braska. _

He dared to tear his eyes away long enough to scan the crowd for their reactions—but there were none. The boardwalk denizens were entirely too absorbed in their trilling games of chance and cones of pink candyfloss to notice the diaphanous woman, or the dead man watching her.

He watched her until she vanished completely, until the last of the contrail kicked up by her heels had dissipated from sight. His headache was all but forgotten.

A fayth? A memory? More trickery conjured by the pyreflies?

A ghost, witnessed only by a ghost.


	2. searching with my good eye closed

A/N: Describing Sin = repressing terrible Cthulhu jokes.

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**enjoy the fall**

by Marigold Futura

* * *

**I.**

* * *

Jecht had previously given him directions to the houseboat—he'd even offered to sketch out a map on the back of a Hypello Tours pamphlet—but Auron had refused that, figuring it would be simple enough to locate the home of Zanarkand's biggest blitz star, if his friend's boasts were anything resembling truth.

When he passed "the giant screen with my face on it" for the third time, he began to suspect he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere.

His peevishness was starting to grow in proportion to the oncoming darkness. He'd been walking most of the day, and the lingering pain of his injury coupled with overwhelming exhaustion was starting to take its toll. The intermittent rumbling of his stomach was even more annoying. He'd always imagined the unsent to be immune to petty human requirements like sleep and food, which he'd thought had been more or less confirmed by that insidious bitch Yunalesca, wallowing all this time in the fetid bowels of a city a thousand years dead. She needed nothing to sustain her wretched existence but the foolish hopes of people like him. Like his friends.

He finally stopped at the side of the footpath, leaning heavily on the railing and exhaling deeply enough to flatten his lungs. He held it like that for a moment, and then another, and then another—until he could bear it no more and drew another breath. What was the point of being dead, he wondered, if you were bound by the same involuntary reflexes as the living? Was it just that he'd been doing it for so long, the pyreflies that now held his body together were merely relying on force of habit?

Mostly alone with his thoughts, except for the faint mush-mouthed wooings of a young man strolling with his paramour on the bridge behind him, he allowed himself a moment to take in the view across the bay. The city at night was like nothing he'd ever seen, nothing he could have possibly dreamed in all his years dwelling in the flickering torchlight of the temple. The lights that blazed on the buildings here played out in strange patterns, rippling rainbows like the wings of Evrae, scrolling out words higher than he was tall: "in concert", "Slots Paradise Gaia", "still missing."

Still missing.

He still felt guilty at having to break his promise to Braska in order to keep the one to Jecht. After all, he'd made that promise first. But for whatever reason, he'd felt he could trust the young Ronso to carry out the duty he knew he was no longer able. The jagged stump of his horn, broken artlessly in some vicious tussle for dominance, clearly marked him as a pariah from Gagazet, seeking elsewhere to hide his shame. The Ronso had shouldered his weight all the way to Rin's; had nodded seriously as he described the mismatched jewels of Yuna's eyes, and had turned and strode out of the Travel Agency with a renewed sense of purpose, leaving Auron on his sagging cot to die alone. In silence, but for the soft whir of the ceiling fan and the sound of Rin's voice offering a customer fifty percent off on eye drops.

He hoped the Ronso had found Yuna; that she was already in Besaid, wearing herself out running everywhere with the village children, too tired and happy to dwell on the fact that her father wasn't there. He knew that wouldn't last forever, certainly not once Yevon started propping up marble dopplegangers of the newest High Summoner all over Spira. He knew the ghost of Braska's presence would come to define her, would likely shape her into a summoner too. He wasn't sure how he knew all this, but he did.

Now, Jecht's son—Tidus, he knew the boy's name was, though Jecht exclusively preferred impersonal epithets like "my kid" or "that runt"—was another matter. Tidus, unlike Yuna, still had a mother, which mercifully meant Auron wasn't going to be saddled with round-the-clock childrearing duties. He was still trying to work out the finer details of trying to ingratiate himself into their lives. He didn't think merely showing up and introducing himself as Jecht's close personal friend was going to fly, without proof or a plausible story. And the truth wasn't going to work there, either. _Yes, I knew your husband well, before his soul was consumed by an eldritch abomination of the deep. By the way, could I trouble you for a glass of water? It's been a long day._

He laughed aloud, a clipped, mirthless syllable heard by no one.

He'd worry about that when he found them, he supposed, and he wasn't getting anywhere just standing here appraising his state of being or what he'd lost. Proper mourning could wait. Mulling over his short life as a faithful minion in a spectacular farce—no, he wasn't ready or willing to face that one yet, either.

_In time_, he told himself. _You've nothing but time now. _

_Get moving._


	3. the ghost woman and the hunter

**enjoy the fall**

by Marigold Futura

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**II.**

* * *

The houseboat sat moored at the end of a row, with little to differentiate itself from its neighbors—that was, aside from the mass of ephemeral tributes littering the walkway from the pier. Sprays of half-wilted blossoms and browning bouquets mingled with glossy paper likenesses of the lost blitz hero, bleached from the sun and rain and puckered with the wax from spent candles.

There was only the soft glow of a light from within to denote any sign of life. There was no sound, not even from the waves lapping at the hull; only an eerie tableau, a crypt festooned a dozen times over with the image of his dead friend's face. An involuntary shudder rippled through him.

Nontheless, he stood vigil until the light abruptly snapped off, shutting down his courage as well.

He'd try this again during daylight hours.

* * *

He'd made up his mind to stay off the grid, invisible as possible, until he had a good enough understanding of Jecht's world to be able to walk about without looking like an anachronistic freakshow.

This essentially entailed living like a vagrant. In other words, sleeping in the sand beneath the pier and rummaging through half-eaten discards in the rubbish bins behind the eateries on the wharf. That day's meal had been a stale, partially gnawed mound of bread with some kind of congealed goo on it, which had at least taken the edge off his hunger, and it hadn't poisoned him. Not that he would've particularly minded if it had.

Here, having shelter and food required money, which in turn required a job, which was the part Auron had the most difficulty with. He'd lived in the Bevelle temple since the age of twelve. The ascetic life of a monk required very little, but that little had always been provided by Yevon, in exchange for his providing a capable sword arm and a fervent belief in the doctrine.

The belief might be shattered now, but the sword arm was still fairly good. As if there were any use for it in this society.

He closed his eyes, thinking of Kinoc, of the life he could have had otherwise, if he'd only submitted to the temple's whims. Of the cold, appraising gaze the old high priest had regarded him with, sizing him up as a potential mate for his daughter. Oh, she'd been lovely, but spoiled and insipid to boot—and he had no intention of marrying _that_ merely to secure his place in the Bevelle pantheon. He'd taken the demotion to prison guard without protest, face as impassive as ever.

He wasn't at all cut out for a life of showboating around in gilded robes, proselytizing to the masses. He was a warrior, a defender, a guardian. His life had meant nothing in the greater scheme of things, and if it could be exchanged for a respite from Sin, even a brief one—he gritted his teeth, furious all over again at how eagerly he'd trotted right up to the slaughter.

He opened his eyes again, and stared, blankly, his rage all but forgotten, for there she was.

The ghost woman.

She wasn't running anymore. She stood before him, one gloved arm extended, fingers prodding at the air, as if trying to touch something...someone? Her eyes were beseeching, curious, twin pools of aquamarine that reminded him so much of his fallen summoner, of the spheres that absorbed people's memories. Drawing him in like a stray pyrefly.

"Hello," he heard himself say.

Her fingers stroked the air languidly, inches from his face. His pulse began to quicken, a development he found absurd, being dead and all. He mused that it was likely the pyreflies playing tricks on him again, which didn't stop it from continuing to climb.

"Can you hear me?" he asked.

Her eyes widened at his words. Her lips parted, shaped themselves into a single, soundless syllable. _Yes._ He noticed her bottom lip was split and scabbed, and how much more clearly he could make out the patchwork of purple bruises and bloody gashes that mottled her arms, her neck, her face. He wondered at what hell she'd gone through, if it could have been the same as the one he'd endured. Somehow he doubted it. The straight, spartan lines of her clothing were more in line with the residents of Zanarkand than anyone from Spira. He wasn't at all sure what to make of the coiled whip attached to her belt, having never seen one wielded outside of an animal trainer he'd watched on the streets of Bevelle as a youth.

"Who are you?"

Her brow furrowed, and her mouth opened once more; and then she was suddenly gone, her translucent form vaporized in the blink of an eye.

He stood a much longer vigil this time, waiting for her return, than the one he'd stood in front of Jecht's. By the time he gave up, collapsing onto the dunes, the sky was already stained pink by the edge of dawn.


End file.
